


I'll Be Home For Christmas

by Ryah_Ignis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bunker Fluff, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, First Kiss, M/M, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, but no mistletoe, seriously so much fluff, sorry - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-25
Updated: 2015-12-25
Packaged: 2018-05-09 08:42:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,744
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5532935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ryah_Ignis/pseuds/Ryah_Ignis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the first Christmas where nothing is trying to kill them, and it's going to be perfect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'll Be Home For Christmas

Dean wakes up on December 24th to Bing Crosby crooning White Christmas. His first, completely inane thought is that there must be a Christmas-themed ghost wandering through the bunker. His second, upon seeing that it's seven o'clock in the morning, is that he's going to kill his brother.

It's the first Christmas that they haven't been tracking down Dad or the yellow-eyed demon, trying to escape a demon deal, or attempting to stop the apocalypse (rounds one, two, three, four, five or six). Dean had agreed to a little bit of celebration, but he definitely hadn't agreed to caroling at the break of dawn.

Groaning under his breath, he slides his feet into the slippers Sam had gotten for his last birthday and pulls the dead guy robe over his head. He rubs the sleep out of his eyes as he shuffles down the hallway.

"Sammy, you've got to be kidding me."

His brother and resident ex-angel are sitting in what looks like a snowstorm. His normally immaculate kitchen has flour strewn absolutely everywhere.

"It uh--the flour container wouldn't open."

Bing keeps singing, undeterred by the flour sticking to the grooves of the record. The record-player is the old fashioned kind. Sam probably dragged it out of the depths of the Men of Letters storage. Cas bobs his head along, clearly enjoying the quieter tones over what Dean usually plays.

"It twists."

"Oh."

Dean imagines his thirty-something genius little brother and the thousand-something former angel each grabbing the opposite side of his poor flour container and tugging. Looking around the room, that's probably exactly what happened.

Honestly.

"I'll get the vacuum."

An hour later, everything is back where he wants it. As it turns out, Sam had been about to put cumin in the pie instead of cinnamon, so it's probably good that he woke up when he did.

They end up making it together. Dean hasn't made one in nearly thirty-five years, but his hands remember better than his head does. Mom had walked him all they way through.

(And if he guides Cas's hands for a moment longer than he needs to when they're making the lattice for the top, that's his business.)

Sam had apparently snuck out to get a tree last night, which is currently halfway down the spiraling steps to the war room because he's realized halfway that, short of chucking it over the railing, there's no way for him to get it down. Dean stares despairingly at it, shaking his head.

"We could decorate it there?" Cas suggests.

Dean shrugs. Better than nothing. They spend the next hour rooting through the same place where Sam had found the record player and come up with some tinsel (that looks as if it's going to disintegrate at their touch), a string of lights (Dean instantly declares it a fire hazard) and multi-colored bulbs that look safe enough to hang up.

Granted, it's more like laying them on the branches, but their horizontal tree is still one of the most festive things that Dean has ever participated in his life.

"Want to perch in the top, Cas?" he jokes, placing his hand on the small of his back and guiding him towards the bottom of the staircase, where the top of the tree is laying.

He sees Sam roll his eyes, but he had spent far too long living his life caring what people think. His heart stutters when Cas rolls his eyes too, much more affectionately.

"Dean, I don't wish to squash the tree."

(And if he resists the urge to ruffle Cas’s hair, that’s his business.)

"We need lights. Want to go buy some?"

Sam ducks out with some kind of excuse about needing to update his card catalog with the new stuff they've dug up, so it's just the two of them heading out to the Impala.

The last two months have been something out of a dream that he wouldn't have even let himself think about a year ago. The Darkness is contained, Heaven is under control and Hell isn't half bad either. Without any world-end scenarios, he and Sam spend their days either on easy hunts within a hundred mile radius or directing younger hunters to ones further away.

Dean would never admit it, but the best thing about the situation is Cas. The angels don't want him back, so he'd steadily grown more and more human until at last he'd given up. Dean had driven him out to one of the national parks and they'd hiked into the deepest part of the woods. He'd wanted Dean to stay away from the explosion of Grace when he finally let it all go, but he'd refused. He had a couple burns on his arms to show for it, but he'd been able to hold Cas as he shook and trembled his way through it.

Afterwards, he'd driven them back to the bunker, Cas passed out in the back. He'd kept sneaking looks back at the way his forehead was smooth instead of creased, the peaceful tilt of his mouth.

Ever since, Cas hadn't left his side, and Dean certainly isn't complaining.

"You wanna drive?"

The list of (living) people that Dean would trust with the Impala includes two people: Sam and Cas. Even though Cas isn't the best of drivers yet.

"I don't need you white-knuckling it all the way to Lebanon," Cas replies breezily.

He's gotten better at the joking thing since falling.

"Wow, okay." He throws his hands up in mock defeat. "If you wanna be lazy, fine by me."

They get down to the garage and into the Impala. Even if Dean isn't living out of her anymore, it still feels a little like coming home.

"It's cold," Cas complains as Dean swats his hand away from the heating.

"It's gonna be freezing if you turn it on now. She takes a while to heat up."

Cas grumbles something under his breath about old cars that Dean pretends not to hear.

They drive in silence, but it isn't knife-sharp like the silence they'd carried between them for so long. It's gentle and familiar, like an old jacket or a car seat that's melded to the shape of their shoulders.

Lebanon has one tiny hardware store, run by a rather crotchety old man who seemed to take it personally when Dean hadn't been able to find the screws. They pull up outside as snow begins to fall.

"Hopefully they're open on Christmas Eve," Dean comments, jogging up to the door.

Thankfully, it opens. They spend a spirited fifteen minutes arguing over whether or not they should get the string that includes purple lights. (“Because, Cas, they’re girly.” “I fail to see how color could possibly indicate gender or why you would care.”) In the end, Cas wins and they go home with the fully rainbow colored strand of lights.

(And if Cas always gets what he wants, that’s his business.)

Sam hasn’t updated his card catalog by the time they’ve returned, but he looks stupidly happy to be watching Love Actually and Dean doesn’t care about the stupid card catalog, so nobody says a word. They end up flopped on the couch Dean had insisted on when they made up the living room, watching various famous British actors fall in and out of love. Cas expresses his concern for Emma Thompson and Sam may or may not have teared up towards the end.

(And if he ends up sitting closer to Cas than his brother, that’s his business.)

Towards midnight, Sam pulls out a bottle of champagne and proposes a toast. One for Mom, solemn and quiet; one for Dad, that Cas glares at before downing; one for Ellen and Jo despite the fact that Ellen would probably laugh herself silly at the alcohol they’re drinking; one for Ash and Pamela, caught in the crossfire; one for Rufus Turner and the cabin they’d stayed in so many times; one for Bobby that Cas leads; one for Charlie, Sam bitter and silent; one for Henry Winchester and the greatest gift any of them had ever gotten and one for all the names they hadn’t said that probably should have been mentioned.

They’re about to toast the fact that none of them are dead this year when the power goes out.

“Figures.”

“It’s probably the breaker. We haven’t had snow like this in ages,” Sam says. “Why don’t the two of you go check on it?”

Dean’s about to grumble that checking on it requires going outside in the freezing cold and leaving the blanket that he and Cas are currently tucked underneath, but Cas gets up and doesn’t really leave him much of a choice.

They trudge out into the snow a few minutes later. Cas is still wearing that stupid trench coat that he picked up as an angel. (Dean has a new one waiting for him at the foot of the tree that probably fits him better.)

“Thank you,” Cas says quietly as they sit down in the wet snow.

Dean looks up at him, distracted from the breaker for a moment. “For what?”

Cas sort of holds his hands out. “Everything.”

How does he always know exactly what to say to make sure Dean doesn’t? Everything means everything.

“How? I mean—your wings—”

He’s still thinking about that clearing in the woods where nothing is ever going to grow again because Cas scorched it hollow and empty.

“Were worth it.”

They’re only a few inches from each other’s faces now. Dean releases a breath in a little puff of fog.

“Why?”

“Because if I was still an angel, I wouldn’t get this. Pies. Trees. Lights. Movies. Christmas with you.”

And before Dean’s brain can get with the program and register what’s happening, Cas has leaned across the space between them. It’s not at all like the kisses Dean had imagined for all those years. It’s gentle and soft (though his lips are slightly chapped) and over much too soon.

When they pull away, Cas has that smug little grin that he gets when something has gone right, and Dean’s heart feels a little bit like it’s going to beat out of his chest.

“Cas, I just have one question. Did the electricity actually go out?”

His grin is answer enough.

Their second kiss is much better than the first.

(And if they don’t actually do anything about the electricity, that’s their business.)


End file.
